


Anthea's Plan

by OldDVS



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/F, Humor, Pre-Slash, no actual relationships yet, no sexy times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-07 13:01:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21217031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldDVS/pseuds/OldDVS
Summary: Somebody has to do something about the mess everyone was in after 221B and their lives blew up.  Anthea takes it upon herself to craft a plan to fix it. It will take some manipulation and intrigue, but she was taught by the best, wasn't she?





	Anthea's Plan

Sometimes it was dead boring, waiting. Of course, she always had her extraordinarily augmented Very Useful Device and she was capable of multitasking and was, indeed, keeping an eye on several delicate situations at this very minute, but sometimes she indulged herself and actually spent a few moments on one of her own projects. Well, her one on-going and somewhat complex project of manipulating and monitoring the factors that would lead to her ultimate life goal.

She was going to have Mycroft's job. 

Not, of course, right away. She was too inexperienced to be able to step into those lovely hand-made Italian shoes. Well, not without experience, exactly. She just didn't have enough dirt on the right people, and...networking. Still working on making all the right connections. But if she crafted her career carefully, she could attain her desires in about twenty years.

Of course, one stumbling block was that Mycroft Holmes was the sort of man who died on the job. At eighty years old. He'd have his umbrella in one hand and the reins of the country in the other when he toppled over. He had no reason to give it up as long as that massive brain was still functional. That scenario did not fit her time-line. Holmes was 46. In twenty years he would be 66, and that was more or less retirement age for most men. It was Holmes, it would no doubt take longer. In twenty years, she would be 49, and still have about twenty years left at the height of her own career. More, if it turned out to be as addictive as Holmes made it out to be. She needed him on the job for the next twenty years so that when the time came, she could be his hand-picked successor. 

But he'd not been in good shape lately. That whole ghastly affair with his sister. It had left him fragile, his confidence shaken as well as his faith in his own ability. He needed bolstering up. He needed something outside the job, and some successes, to get back on track. Since he seemed to have an instinct about subterfuge and insincerity, he also needed something straightforward.

And, in Anthea's opinion, he also needed to shed the odd little relationship he had with Lady Smallwood. It had started several years ago with Lord Smallwood's failing health and his wife's need to feel as if she were in control of the powerful men around her. She had rather cleverly blackmailed, manipulated or coerced a half dozen men of importance into sexual relationships, each of which resulted in political benefit to the men. Well, and to herself, too. Concurrent affairs, which meant she had, despite the absence of her husband's ability to provide the same, more sex than most women her age. She certainly had more than Anthea! Although, the woman had recently allowed two of her paramours off the hook. Too much of a good thing, or were they not living up to expectations?

Mycroft, however, still had his monthly rendezvous in her bed. He was the youngest of the lot, and probably fairly inventive, for his own sake if not hers. While Mr. Holmes was efficiently bi-sexual, it wasn't the women his eyes followed when a pretty piece sauntered into view. Anthea sometimes wondered about his fantasy life. He probably had to use his enormous mind in very interesting ways to keep himself performing as expected. Through careful observation, she knew, in general, what drew Mycroft's eye. In fact, she had recently come to the conclusion that she knew exactly what drew his eye. 

Mr. Holmes had excellent taste. And not just in ties, suits, and pocket squares. Not for him the twenty somethings, with their youthful grace, or even the thirty-somethings, with their maturing confidence. No, he liked men more or less his own age, even older on occasion. Men in the prime of life. Solid, personable, healthy men.

Men like Detective Inspector Lestrade of New Scotland Yard. She had once caught Mr. H. watching the policeman walk away towards Sherlock, and so she knew there was interest there. And the nice man was several years older than Mr. Holmes. An older husband would be ideal for encouraging her boss to retire when the time came. The older man would retire first, and then encourage the spouse to join him in whatever retirement appropriate antics they might get up to. It was hard to imagine what. She couldn't see Holmes as anything but a busybody and a meddler, even in his dotage. He'd probably consult. Consulting was good. She'd probably need his services herself sometimes.

So for several years, when the job was safe enough to allow it, she had spent her 'waiting time' with one eye on the task at hand and the other on her various scenarios and project speculations. The current situation forced her to hurry the time-line along, but she realized recently that she had all the pieces she needed for her plan. It was such a stunning revelation that she actually smiled at John Watson, giving that poor man quite a turn. Fortunately, Sherlock was at hand to distract the doctor and allow her to get her game face settled back in place. 

The idea had come, but it took a further two months to build her back-ups and her contingency plans and find the idea location. It took a full third of her personal savings account and a good many sleepless nights. She had to choose a time when all the players could be spared for at least 48 hours, and when her hired thugs were available. 

It was a little surprising that this occurred the day after Christmas, but she took it as a present to herself and initiated “Mission Moonshot.”

Which is why she was perched on an old-fashioned parlor sofa, intent on her Very Useful Device when DI Lestrade entered the suite. He had come straight from work and looked just a little rumpled. On him it looked good. He smiled at her as he greeted her. Good. It hadn't been a terrible day, just the usual string of minor crises. 

“So glad you could come,” she murmured as he stopped before her. “Are you still willing to help me?”

“Yes. Mr. Holmes does look like he needs a vacation. I'll do whatever I can to help,” he told her. He looked appropriately concerned, she noted with a twinge of pleasure. The pleasure which came from a plan coming together.

“He looks positively ragged,” she agreed, hoping that Mr. Holmes never heard that she had said so. “I'm going to ask you to wait in there, and hold onto him if he tries to escape. Just long enough for me to talk to him. He's been turning a deaf ear to whatever I've said on the subject of his health.” That was true enough. She showed Lestrade the room, suggesting he stand on the far side, where the wardrobe would hide the sight of him from the door. “Now, be very quiet,” she cautioned. “He can't know you're here.”

He agreed, she turned out the overhead light so that the only illumination was the lamp by the bed and pulled the door almost shut. Just in time, for her next players had arrived. Sherlock and his friend John strode in, John a step behind and covering Sherlock's flank and back as usual.

Both of them looked horrible as well. John was raising his daughter and working part time, and the bags under his eyes reflected loss of sleep. He had gone gray at the temples and his posture was just a little...old. His detective friend was thin, almost gaunt, with shadows under his eyes and his dark hair longer than it had been last she had seen him. They were all still at John's house in suburbia while 221 Baker Street was under repair. Well, reconstruction, actually. Even 221C was being redone, it's un-rentable tendency to retain moisture and grow mold now forever curtailed, first by the blast and second by the relentless gutting at the hands of determined contractors. 

None of the residents of 221 were much recovered from their ordeal, although Mrs. Hudson seemed to be doing better than the men. 

All of them in just as bad shape as Mycroft, she'd thought. None of them could be bullied into therapy, although she's never seen a group more in need of it. This plan, if successful, would at least get them talking, and would help. She hoped.

“Drink?” she offered, with a wave of her hand at the small bar along the far wall. Sherlock shook his head, and began inspecting the windows. John, however, poured a few ounces of golden liquid into an exquisite heavy glass and joined her. 

“How long do we have to wait for Mycroft? I was afraid something would come up and he'd have to work.” John's eyes canted in Sherlock's direction as his flatmate dropped to his knees and investigated the hem of the curtain.

“I have made sure. Well, as much as I could. The Americans are having another crisis but he didn't seem to feel it needed his attention.”

“Good.” He lowered his voice and went on. “I think you're right and Mycroft needs some time off. He was like a robot when we saw him a few days ago. Didn't even react to Sherlock's nonsense.”

“I'm so glad you agreed to help me,” she said, also in a low voice. Inside she was gagging at the sweet tone she managed to achieve, but needs must and all that. She looked up at the sound of the door to the house opening. Steps on the stairs. Showtime! She straightened her posture and and turned, Very Useful Device in hand. Sherlock scrambled to his feet just as his brother walked in.

“What have you done now, Sherlock?” Mycroft said in a weary voice as he paused in the doorway. 

“Nothing to interest you,” his brother snarked back. Sherlock took a few steps towards his brother. Hands on his hips, his gaze flicking over him, top to bottom, as he gathered data. “A better question is what have you been up to? You look like...” he paused, and John finished the sentence.

“Like you could use a drink. What do you fancy, Mycroft?” He put his own drink down and moved towards the small bar.

“Nothing, thank you. The message said Sherlock has discovered entirely new heights of...ooofmfh!”

John had reversed course with far more agility than anyone might expect, and shoved into Mycroft, hard, just as Sherlock grabbed him from the other side. With help from John, the umbrella and phone went to the left. The small handgun Mycroft kept at his ankle went skittering to the right with Sherlock's gleeful assistance, followed by his wallet, which Anthea scooped up before Sherlock could get any ideas. It was only a short distance to the door of the bedroom, which was flung open and Mycroft slung through it. With a crash the door was closed and locked. John looked happy and Sherlock triumphant. She went about collecting all of her Mycroft-booty, locking it all away in a wooden box she pulled from behind a chair.

Huffing hard but trying not to show it, John leaned against the wall. Sherlock was trying not to reveal that the exertion had taxed him as well. Anthea pushed a button on her Very Useful Device and four very large men men in black suits rushed in through the door, and without stopping, the largest two each grabbed a doctor or a detective, while the other two divested them of gun, coats, knives, and wallets, and thrust them into a room just to the left of Mycroft's prison. The door was slammed shut. Anthea sauntered up and turned the lock herself. Then she went about gathering up her new souvenirs, being careful to hang up Sherlock's beloved coat in the wardrobe near the door. It wasn't his old coat, of course, but an exact replica Mycroft had provided. She turned to look over her henchmen, none of whom was breathing hard at all.

“Thank you, gentlemen. I believe you have your assignments?” The four gave identical nods and left, one taking up a position outside the door. Anthea turned that lock as well. Then she went back to her comfortable seat on the sofa and pulled from underneath another box, in which she stored her second lot of ill-gotten gains. Then she once again brought forth her Very Useful Device.

“I'm so sorry, gentlemen,” she spoke into it, knowing that all four of them could hear her. She's installed the speakers herself. “I need to address the herd of elephants in the room before the herd causes me personal inconvenience. You will find two stacks of cards under the pillows on the bed. Find the stack with your name on it. Read each card and discuss. Or sit there and come to terms with it on your own if you're that stubborn. The doors will open after twenty-four hours, at which point you will be free to leave. Don't worry, Mrs. Hudson has Rosie, and I've cleared your schedule, Mr. Holmes.

“I don't care if you just sit there and think, or take a nap, or talk to yourself, or take advantage of having a sympathetic ear. As long as you come out of this with your intentions clear, your goals made and your hearts eased, it will have been worth it. I'll be out here. If you have any needs, just push the button beside the door and I will answer. And yes, I know that any one of you, with enough effort and thought, could escape those rooms. If you must, leave. But you'd be a fool to do it. And I won't make it easy.

“Each room has a very fine selection of non-alcoholic drinks and the means to make coffee and tea. Food is in a box under the bed. Personal care items are in the bedside table. I know there's only one bed. Deal with it. 

“I really hope this brings you...what you need.” She paused, and added, “This is a one way device. I, thank god, can't hear you unless you press the button by the door. Good luck.” With a flick of her thumb she cut off her announcement and leaned back. It was a very comfortable sofa. Good thing, because she would be sleeping on it. Her Very Useful Device would warn her if the doors, or windows were opened, and it was her sincere belief that the idiots would not make a break for it. There were some hefty men to accost them if they managed it. Now if the men she had confined and the international scene would just stay quiet for a bit, she could check her e-mail. She had to pretend to be Mycroft for almost a day, and was looking forward to it. She leaned into the back of the sofa with the confidence of a woman whose stiletto heels were actually stilettos and got to work.

Sherlock's Cards  
You see but you do not observe. John needs help. You'll probably never get him to a therapist again, so you'll have to help each other. Start with a hug.

A person can actually learn relationship skills. There's a copy of How to Win Friends and Influence People in the bottom drawer of the bureau. 

The reports suggest unspeakable things happened to you which prevent you from considering a relationship with a man. One can have a perfectly good relationship without anal penetration. 

Mycroft's Cards  
He's not as straight as you think he is. 

Lady Smallwood has agreed three is a crowd. Mostly because I introduced her to Under- secretary Gimford yesterday. She assures me you will retain a professional relationship.

One can have a perfectly good relationship without anal penetration.

John's Cards  
Not gay does not mean straight.

Not much of this is your fault, but you need to deal with what is. He'll forgive you. Forgive him. Rosie loves Sherlock.

One can have a perfectly good relationship without anal penetration.

Greg's Cards  
The Iceman can be melted. He already fancies you. 

Stop worrying what your kids will say. What do you want, for yourself?  
You're not that old. Get over it.

One can have a perfectly good relationship without anal penetration.


End file.
